


Another Touch

by CitrusVanille



Category: Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Stoppard
Genre: Dialogue straight from Stoppard's text., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-18
Updated: 2007-03-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a boat... Dark, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Touch

“…I can’t see a thing,” Rosencrantz’s voice informs him.

“You can still _think_ , can’t you?” Guildenstern demands.

“I think so.”

Guildenstern rolls his eyes which, of course, goes unseen in the pitch blackness surrounding him. “You can still _talk_.”

“What should I say?”

He bites back a sigh of irritation. “Don’t bother. You can _feel_ , can’t you?”

And, suddenly, there is a hand on his leg. A warm hand.

“Ah!” Rosencrantz cries victoriously. “There’s life in me yet!”

“What are you feeling?” Guildenstern asks, throat suddenly very dry as the hand begins to wander.

“A leg,” comes the reply. “Yes, it feels like my leg.”

“How does it feel?” the words are slightly choked, but, thankfully, not so audibly as to be noticeable by the owner of the _very warm hand_.

“Dead.”

“Dead?” Guildenstern echoes, trying not to squirm. He’s beginning to sweat. _God, it’s hot._

“I can’t feel a thing!”

Rosencrantz is clearly panicking, but now both hands are running all over Guildenstern’s leg, and the light-haired man’s brain seems to have shut down. “Give it a pinch!” he says, hardly registering the words as they leave his mouth. A split second later he yelps in shock and pain when his companion obeys.

“Sorry,” Rosencrantz apologizes.

“Well,” Guildenstern responds, feeling both relieved and disappointed, but rather more aware of his thoughts again, “that’s cleared that up.”

But apparently it doesn’t, because the hands are still there, fingers from one lightly caressing the abused spot, while the other hand begins to roam farther up Guildenstern’ thigh. It creeps slowly higher and higher, stroking gently, fingers dancing across the thin layer of cloth that is all that stands between them and sensitive, rapidly heating skin, and then –

Guildenstern can’t suppress his gasp.

At the same moment, the shouts of sailors are heard.

The hands both vanish.

Guildenstern’s poorly stifled groan of frustration is lost in the noise.

**END**


End file.
